NOTHING HURTS LIKE FAMILY

Writing is a funny thing. There are times when it bubbles up pure and fresh, almost effortless. It feels like magic, and the blank page fills with words. A gift, not for readers, but for myself.

There are other times when I squeeze it out, a few recycled words. Predictable. Mundane. And I dress them up with a garnish and a little paper umbrella, pretending that no one was really thirsty after all.

I sat down to write about our family holiday. Something sweet and palatable about lazy beach days and toasting s’mores in the flickering firelight. We had a wonderful vacation! Idyllic moments punctuated by the exhaustion and chaos of our newly expanded family. The past few weeks we have connected with cousins and siblings and parents. We have laughed and reminisced and made several more “remember when” stories for the dinner table.

But no amount of garnish can dress up the bad writing I’ve produced on the topic. I can’t make it work. It’s a cheesy tourism brochure.

The truth is, I am consumed by the turmoil of family politics. Somehow it seems to overshadow all of the Norman Rockwell we’ve experienced. Like the fog that rolled in on our last day at the beach house, obscuring the spectacular view we had already begun to take for granted.

So this post is not what I intended. It is messy and vague and somewhat depressing. But honest.

Nothing hurts like family.

I write this with the sad comfort that I am not singling out any family member or particular conflict. On every side of both our families is a complex web of hurt feelings and disrespect and misunderstanding. I’m beginning to think it is normal, though it feels very unnatural. Most of the time we sit on the periphery and try our best to play peace-maker. But we’ve played a few rounds ourselves lately.

You don’t need the details to know the story. Over and over again in a thousand little ways and in the big ones too: nothing hurts like family.

Normally, I prefer the irritation and necessary pain of honest interaction. My advice to others almost always involves gentle confrontation. It’s not fair to be angry with someone and not tell them. Words. Words. Words.

Yet in reality they aren’t the magic fix I imagine. Some things are more complicated than diplomacy and amateur psychology can address. And let’s face it, the walking wounded make terrible diplomats. In my own life it is absurdly easy to settle for a thin veneer of civility atop a bubbling cesspool of resentment. I hate to admit that. It makes me a terrible hypocrite.

My husband reminds me to let things go, to be kind and forgiving, to do good, even when others don’t. Even when others don’t notice, which is the most annoying of all. For him, the relationship is more important than the fight. He is the master of conflict avoidance. But sometimes this peace feels like a lumpy rug. Eventually we’re bound to trip on all that skillfully concealed debris.

So we vacillate between conflict and cover-up. And I don’t know which is better. And I don’t have any more answers. And I don’t know what to do next.

But I love my family. All of them. Even the ones who hurt me. Even the ones whom I’ve hurt.

I don’t have a great insight about this subject, not yet. No pithy conclusion. No 10 simple steps to fix what ails us. Just a prayer for wisdom and hope that my words, and actions, and inactions will make things better, not worse.

So here’s me, trying to figure out how we imperfect jerks can love each better.

CHRISTIE HOOS

SO HERES US

THE PAST

I keep memories.  Lots of them.  Scrapbooks, boxes, folders and journals with stories of life that I pray one day will fall in to an order that will make sense to my kids someday.  I have dreams of them flipping through the pages and knowing the history of their first steps, how Mama and Papa met or what life was like as the grew up.  I have always done this and I probably wouldn't know how to stop, even if I wanted to.

But life isn't slowing down and there comes a time when you must get rid of some things before you end up on that show Hoarders.  During spring cleaning, I found a box filled with old letters and emails I had printed for the purpose of keeping to record history.  They were from a wide assortment of people and it was really quite fun to read over them and relive a few fun moments of the past.  Mixed in the tall stack were some from my husband when we were in the dating stages.  Those were special.  Those I set aside to read with him later.

Yeah right.  Like I have patience.  After sorting for a few more minutes and tossing 75% of the stack that were just forwards I apparently thought were funny/historical, I thumbed through the treasure pile.  On the top was hillarious poem I wrote about his willingness/comfort to fart in front of me and how important that made me feel.  I know...odd.  Don't judge us.  ;)  Following the "cute" rhyme was a collection of emails and quick notes filled with angry and sarcastic words that we shared about who knows what.  It hurt to read the words.  In an instance, I felt unloved by the man I have been married to for nearly seven years.  The man I KNOW loves me.  Sitting on the floor of my bedroom, pouring over these ink filled pages, I was questioning his love and how we ever made it this long.  My hurt turned to anger and then to guilt and then who knows where.  I was a wreck.  And then he walked in.

Unprepared for the emotional onslaught that was headed his way, he smiled at me and asked what the heck I was doing.  I handed him one letter, watched him read it and then twinged a bit as he laughed it off.  "What was I even talking about?" he asked me as he casually handed it back.  I didn't know.  I just knew that he wasn't happy with me in that letter and it hurt that he ever even thought of me that way.  Ever.

The evening went on and my heart was still hurting about past hardships we had had.  I was needy for his loving attention and for him to tell me how much he loved me...all because of my stoopid trip down memory lane.  In my pity party, God interupted.  It was like he was reminding me that we all have an ugly past.  In the middle of my pity party, it was like there was this awesome slideshow of our lives and how far God had brought us.  Not only together as a couple (which in itself is a miracle) but how God had changed each of us in such huge, individual ways.  Yes, we had some horrible conversations via written word (and spoken) but we are here, now, with each other and with God leading our lives and our relationship.  It is clear that without him, the institute of our marriage would either have crumbled or not lasted much longer.  But He interupted.  And saved us from ourselves. 

And that history I can't seem to let go of?  That simple criss-cross-applesauce moment on the floor really affected me.  When God promises us that He will seperate our sins as far as the east is from the west...He does.  Maybe I should be more forgiving as well.  Yes it was a part of our story but who really needs to see the exact details?  We have forgiven each other, we have moved on and we have seperated our past from the hope that God has promised us.  And that iself, is better than any scrapbook.

AMY BALLARD

www.amybphotography.com